Page 12 of Delta

Dude, really?

The girl and I widen our eyes at each other in disbelief.

I want to laugh, but I don't dare.

He watches the whole video, and we're treated to every gag, slap, slurp, squelch, and scream. Ah yes, porn, the ASMR version. Lovely.

Things take a worrying turn, however, when the porn-watcher reaches into his pants and adjusts his junk…lengthily. Rhythmically.

The other man says something that sounds like "What the fuck, dude? For real?" Followed by a gesture at the door, as in, “Can't you do that in fucking bathroom?"

Grumbling, Porny McGee lumbers to his feet and shuffles toward the door; his hard-on bulges against his zipper, and he gives it a rub over his jeans.

And then, the nightmare begins.

He looks back at the girl on the bench. Speculative, greedy. Evil.

No, no, no.

My heat starts pounding in my chest, and I can see the girl's hand clenching into a trembling fist. A tear trickles down her nose.

The other man, still seated, sees what's happening and mutters something. Porny McGee gestures at the girl and then his dick.

Seated thug gestures at his face—it seems like a "you can't fuck up her face" sort of thing.

And then Porny McGee stomps back across the compartment, grabs the girl by the wrist and yanks her to her feet. She thrashes, starts to scream, and the man slugs her in the gut. Her eyes bug out, and she goes limp, gasping and gurgling, bile dribbling down her lips.

I lurch to my feet, unable to do nothing. The man beside me grabs me by the shoulder and shoves me back down to the bench; before I can so much as blink, the sharp, cold point of a pocketknife is pricking my throat.

"You sit, extra girl," he snarls at me. "Or you next."

The girl's eyes met mine, pleading, as the thug drags her from the compartment. Once in the swaying hallway, he drags her to her feet and slings an arm around her waist, hauling her against him, laughing as he paws her ass; to an onlooker, it would appear as if they're a couple who can't wait to get to the toilet so they can get it on.

Nausea curdles in my gut, but I don't dare even breathe. When he's satisfied I'm not going to try anything, my captor removes the knife from my throat, but doesn't put it away.

My throat burns, vomit boiling behind my teeth, rage and horror warring for dominance within me.

I'm next.

It's only a matter of time. This isn't an adventure. No one is going to save me.

What did Mom always tell me?

I'll never, ever beat any man pound for pound, strength for strength. I have to rely on my wits, courage, and ruthlessness, as well as my superior speed and reaction time.

Women are faster. Our reaction times are exponentially better than a man's. And when we have to, we can be far crueler and infinitely more vindictive than any man could ever dream of being.

I understand now, Mom.

I hesitated back in the club because I didn't know I had to kill him. I saw him as a human. A life. I didn't have the conviction that it was him or me.

Now, I do.

This isn't hot, mindless, reactive anger I'm feeling.

This is cold, calculating hate.

Thoughtful, methodical, brutal rage.